You don't want me to be dead? Then keep me alive
by DonnieTZ
Summary: "Sherlock ..." The voice that comes from John's lips is one I don't recognize. Rough, deep, hesitant. His hand sinks in my hair and his fingers intertwine with my locks, pushing my face closer to his. The couch is suddenly too small for both of us. Increased pulse rate. Increased temperature. Dilated pupils. *** English translation by alexisriversong
1. Coming back and letting go

This is a translation from Italian to English by alexisriversong

**1 Coming back and letting go**

"Sherlock ..."

The voice that comes from John's lips is one I don't recognize. Rough, deep, hesitant. His hand sinks in my hair and his fingers intertwine with my locks, pushing my face closer to his. The couch is suddenly too small for both of us.

My hands are on his hips, one above the jumper and the other slips under all the layers to touch his bare skin. I kiss his neck again and again before getting up just to observe him.

Increased pulse rate.

Increased temperature.

Dilated pupils.

"Sherlock ..." he repeated more urgently, closing his eyes to hide his desire from me.

It looks like you are trying to stop me with those who seem to be poor results.

It was easy to have him here, beneath me. Too simple. As if he had been wanting it for a long time. It took me much longer to come to terms with the idea of being attracted by him. And if I had been able to confirm it, it was only because of the distance, because of the strange discomfort in my stomach that I've had since I had to fake my death. Ok, this and seeing him with Mary. He is not thinking about her, is he?

"John." I whispered touching his lips with mine, "Look at me."

His eyes opened again and I drowned in their depths. It's nothing in comparison to nicotine, nothing compared to any drug I've ever tried. It can't even compare with the resolution of a case.

John can't be compared to anything except to John and this defies any logical analysis and fills me with frustration.

I sunk on his lips, exploring with my tongue, founding his. Also my other hand slips under his jumper and his skin is hot. We passed the thirty-six degrees a while ago. The clothes are an annoying barrier that irritates me. I take off his jumper and he is now in shirtsleeves.

"I ... I don't think it's a good idea." He whispered while my fingers are already reaching for the buttons, ready to unbutton them to reveal what's hidden beneath the cotton.

"Your physical and psychological involvement, at this moment in time, doesn't allow you to make objective assessments, John."

I can feel my smile spreading on my face, but his expression is not as amused as mine while he get up and abruptly pulls away. We end up sat next to each other and this puzzles me.

"Your attitude is absolutely inexplicable, John." I hiss throwing him a sideways glance. He is getting dressed and I feel I must do something to prevent it. Anything, even talk.

"My ... my attitude ?!"

His tone of voice is somewhat indignant.

"Exactly."

"You're amazing!" he shouts shocked.

"Thanks."

"Not like that, don't ..."

It looks like he is going to blush while he gives up talking and let his hands fall still gripping the jumper. At least he was not going to have to remove it again.

He was not going to declare himself defeated so soon.

Not without having really tried.

Not after remembering his face in front of my gravestone, his trembling voice.

I let a hand wander to his and intertwined our fingers, clenching his palm. He looked confused.

"What ?!" I asked angrily noticing his disbelief.

"What are you doing?" He questioned me back.

I look at him like he is a fool.

"It seems pretty obvious to me Dr. Watson."

I think back to all the gestures, implied or otherwise, that I had done without realizing it, and all those that he had addressed to me. Every single moment, every word, every look. The clues are all here, you don't need anything else. There are even too many.

"I'm not Gay."

"Ok." I replied with a neutral tone.

Why is it so important to define everything if something, in doing so, have to be left out? It is a serious lack of mental flexibility. He may not be attracted to men in general, but I am almost certain, with an accuracy of one percent, that he is attracted to me.

"Really."

"Ok." I repeat.

Yet our hands don't want to let go.

"I better go." He concludes.

He slides off the couch, from my fingers, from my understanding once again. He is standing in the middle of the room looking around. I observe him, watching and analyzing what I can understand. His body language reveals anxiety, perhaps even panic. He has my scent on him, probably, and seems to feel numb because his steps are uncertain.

"John."

He stops by the front door.

"Stay."

I will not surrender, not this time, not like this. I get up and go to him, I hold him from behind So he can understand that it's imperative.

"There is one thing that I just can't forget, John."

"What?" He murmured without moving, wrapped in this tight hug that I don't believe to be really good at giving.

"What you said in front of my grave."

"You ... you were there?"

"I was so alone and I owe you so much."

"I remember what I told you, Sherlock." He answers soured.

"Then you owe it to me." He whisper blowing the words close to his ear.

"Oh you're ... you're ... Now I will return to Mary and pretend that this absurd thing ... never happened." He hisses moving away, outraged.

Mary, Mary, Mary.

Bleah.

I can't prevent an annoyed sigh to leave between my teeth. He turns and walks away. Just like that, just how he came to scold me of my disappearance. Because this was the absurd original intent, I'm sure.

I head quickly to grab my violin and the only tune that I can impose to the arch is a kind of really squeaky funereal tune. I am stubbornly turned to the window and I know that soon I will see him appear below and go away once and for all. Because now I had definitely crossed a line from which it will be complicated to go back. I put the memory of our kisses in a small room in my Mind Palace. The blush on his cheeks, his voice, his demanding hands. Everything will be preciously stored there until the day of my death.

I hear John's footsteps on the stairs suddenly freeze at the sound of the violin.

Finally, more slowly, they ascend again.

"Keep playing." He says decided "What I have to say is important and I will leave right after I say it."

I continue playing the whiny sounds with my violin while my heart beats at a totally different rhythm. I imagine all the biological and chemical processes that all this puts in place.

"I have loved you."

The note jams, the string breaks injuring my finger. In a moment, John is next to me.

"Oh." It's the only thing he says, holding my finger between his hands. A drop of blood slips slowly along my skin.

"Wait here." He orders before disappearing for a moment and come back armed with what has the air of being a Band-Aid.

"It is not necessary, John."

He didn't listen and carefully bandaged my finger. When he finished, however, he doesn't look up to meet my eyes.

"The past is the past, Sherlock. I've got Mary, now. "

I lift his face with my finger. My John. All I can think is that he is my John. No clarity, no cold logic when he is so close. The only person that really matters to me, the one, the only one. All of this is almost suffocating. I leaned on him, lips getting closer to his.

"Good thing you cut the mustache." I whisper before continuing where I left off.

Moments after John abandons any hesitation and gets up on his toes, wrapping his arm around my neck. I drop the violin somewhere, without even noticing where, and dragged him back on the couch. I can't give him a moment's respite because I know he would think then and he is not very good at that. My kisses are demanding and I can't not see how John is answering.

Suddenly, though, as my hand is once again heading to the buttons of his stupid shirt, he stops me.

"Have you anything else to reveal?" I ask sarcastically, completely uninterested in the answer.

"Mary."

A single word, a thousand meanings. There is no more space for me?

I stay sit, this time. I let John pick up his things and disappear. I have to let him go. I have to. Because loving someone means also this. And it is boring, stupid, senseless, illogical, devoid of any rational basis. Yet I have to.


	2. Bored, bored, bored

****This is a translation from Italian to English by alexisriversong****

****2. Bored, bored, bored…****

__London is a huge chessboard towards which all kinds of criminals, agents, and madman are irresistibly drawn to. Sometimes, it's not a question of who, but a question of "who knows?". If this man clears his papers, I have to know. If this woman leaves London without having brought his dog to the dog hound, I need to know. I have some people ... I call them "signals". When they start to move, I know that something is going to happen. Like rats abandoning a sinking ship.__

When two clients sits in front of us I remember the conversation I had with Mycroft. I have to dismantle an underground network of terrorists. To be more accurate, in fact, I would have to say that I have to dismantle __another__ underground network of terrorists.

Also when I say that the clients sit before __us__, I am talking about me and Molly Hooper. She doesn't seem very comfortable with the idea of replacing John but she will be ok with it soon, I'm sure. I'm the one I have to take care of at the moment. I'm the one with a serious problem that no one seems to care about.

__I'm bored, bored, bored...__

This man really has the courage to come here to propose me such a case? Could he be so stupid?! Someone emptied his bank account, of course, right.

"Weight loss, dyed hair, botox, lover. Lawyer. Next! " I snap angrily handing the poor wife sitting on the chair a business card.

Then a huge number of cases that do nothing but magnify my boredom follow one after the other. It is abysmal, nerve-wracking, frustrating. A stepfather who pretends to be the daughter's virtual lover to get her money would seem to be the highlight of the day if it wasn't for Lestrade's call.

We quickly reached him and he leads us to a dusty cavern. A skeleton awaits us sitting at a desk. Perhaps, for a moment, boredom could vanish... I look closely at the body, sniffing the air around him.

__Pine? Spruce? Cedar, fresh naphthalene. Carbon particulates, fire damage.__

While Molly does her annoying questions all I can hear is John's voice in my head.

__Come o,n show off!__

"Shut up, John!" I hiss, arousing the other's people curiosity.

I have to stay focused, deduce carefully. I can't think about him, his words, his lips. I complete the pieces of my theory while Molly dates the bones as older than six months. A hype, of course. All of this is confirmed when we find an absurd Jack the Ripper diary.

__Boring, boring, boring...__

To make matters worse the only two people here need an explanation and I have to arm myself with all my patience to provide it. Contrary to what everyone thinks I do not find any reward in being the smartest in the room, the building, the street, the whole damn town.

What would John say if he were here to hear me speak? What expression would he do? I can evaluate every possibility, almost enough to be able to picture it.

__Know-it all!__

"Shut up!" I snap for the last time.

Soon we are on the road. Secondary objective: return an absurd hat with pom-poms to its rightful owner. The primary objective: find out what interesting thing the subject in question can tell us.

We enter and immediately his passion for trains is more than obvious. I do not need to know any more about him than what his ridiculous hat has already told me at first glance. I refrain from commenting and I listen to him while he shows us a CCTV video from the subway station he works for.

__Bored, bored, no ... wait a minute.__

A man gets on the last carriage and disappears before reaching the next station. Empty wagons. No output possible, no branch. And there's more. The driver does not show up to work that day. Finally his face ... a face that is somewhere in my Mind Palace. A face, that face, what face? I know. It's one of my signals, my markers. Here it is, finally, the strange behavior I was looking for!

Once at home, in Baker Street, my mind is working at a tireless speed, trying to make a list of everything I need. First of all, I need: maps, new, old, detailed maps of the subway.

__And John. No, Sherlock, keep centered! You don't need this nonsense, you do not need John. His kisses, his hands, the skin under that jumper... Damn!__

Molly doesn't seem to be able to keep up with me and I understand that she can't do it while I quickly reel off indications while climbing up the stairs. She can't replace John. No one can, for how much I would like it to be possible. I guess I owe her a thank you, I guess it's fair and I am sure she deserves it. "I wish you to be happy, Molly Hooper. You deserve it. "

But now I do not feel any better. I don't like the idea of having to eat alone a huge portion of chips... I don't want to be like Mycroft. I don't want to think about people like they are goldfish, wondering why everything runs so slowly, day by day.

I want John, here, now.


	3. Two years to forget

**This is a translation from Italian to English by alexisriversong**

**3. Two years to forget**

A disaster befalls on me less than an hour later. When Mary enters like a fury in my flat, her worried voice bouncing around the corridors. Someone must have taken John. She shows me a message on her phone that blinks of threats and running time.

SAVE SOULS NOW!

JOHN OR JAMES WATSON?

SAINT OR SINNER?

JAMES OR JOHN?

THE MORE IS LESS?

A code, even Mary understood. Someone took John. The excitement comes over me threatening to bend my lucidity, but I prevent it from taking over and try to think quickly. I know where to find John - the Church of St. James the Less - but I do not know how to get there on time. I rush into the street continuing to explore every possibility.

_Think, Sherlock, think!_

Of course, a fast, two-wheeled vehicle, powerful, fast. I need to find one soon. I jump in the middle of the street and there it was, a shiny motorcycle with two passengers. I impose them to stop holding out my hand in the air and two seconds later Mary and I are hurtling at high speed through the streets of London.

I mentally calculate the estimated time of arrival based on the way I decided. The cold air creeps under my coat, but I feel my blood running fast enough to keep me warm.

_Damn it John, why you didn't stay with me, where I could check that nobody hurt you ?!_

GETTING WARMER, MR HOLMES.

YOU HAVE ABOUT TEN MINUTES.

Too slow, too little time. A sharp pain spreads through my stomach. It's fear, I recognize the symptoms. Insane, irrational, useless fear which I must not leave any power at this time. I have to re-evaluate the way to go, clinging to my rationality with all my might.

_John ..._

A checkpoint is a terrible obstacle in my way. I feel Mary's hands grabbing me and keeping myself focused at the same time. There must be a way, there must be an alternative, any one, no matter which one if it works. My gaze falls on the walkway to my left and insinuate the motorbike in that space reviewing my mental journey to get to John.

BETTER HURRY

THINGS ARE HOTTING UP HERE.

I lean with the bike, going through the air, increasing the speed. I have to do it, I have to get there in time, nothing else matters now.

STAY OF THE EXECUTION. YOU HAVE GOT TWO MORE MINUTES.

I can see it, the pile of wood in the open space near the church. We are still far and it is only a distant vision, but we are getting closer. I feel hope rise unstoppable because we have arrived on time, we can do it.

_Hang in there, John, I'm here, I'll always find you every time, everywhere._

People surrounding what has to be the puppet of Guy Fawkes begin to take shape, I can see them. We are so close, we have arrived, we just need a second ...

WHAT A SHAME MR HOLMES.

JOHN IS QUITE A GUY!

The phone rings with the arrival of this message and the pyre is set on fire, spreading yellow in the night air. The flames are high, powerful, relentless.

_No!_

I abandon the bike and launch myself into the crowd, pushing people away as thin cries rise up from the pile on fire.

_John!_

The flames wrap around me, burning the oxygen around me not letting me breathe, but I have to get him out of here. Even if it is the last thing I do, if it's my last act, my last farewell. I have to do it, despite the fire burning my skin, making my eyes water.

I can feel him under my hands, John. I grab and drag his body in the clearing, away from the blazing pyre.

"John! John! "

I watch him quickly involuntarily recording every detail.

Bruising under his temple.

Mild carbon monoxide poisoning.

He'll be fine.

He opens his eyes in what I believe is an attempt to focus on my face and Mary's, she is leaning at my side. I'm so relieved that I forget everything and instinctively caress his cheek with my hand.

He looks at me, looks at us, and then tries to talk.

"M ... Ma ... Mary."

And it is at this time that I am left all by myself.

I get up and disappear, leaving them alone.

I've been home for hours. I did nothing but stare at the stupid happy face on the wallpaper. I would like to shoot it, but I do not have a weapon. I have nothing. Only ghosts clouding me, wrapping me, dragging me with them in the dark depths of this sea.

_Love is a dangerous disadvantage._

No, it's worse than that. It is the most terrible lie, a lie which annihilates the mind and destroys everything, leaving only emptiness. How stupid on my part. How much predicable is this behavior. I dig into my Mind Palace in search of a cure, desperate to discover what needs to be done in these cases, but I cannot find anything. It never happened something like that, because I was very careful, because I get bored, because there is no one in the world that is able to move me as ... John.

How long has it been? How many minutes? How much will it take me to forget?

Nicotine. It need nicotine. Or heroin?

_Something, anything._

The night passes and I realize I am still here, I haven't moved a single muscle except my mind. She doesn't want to be silent, never will. The light is turned off and darkness falls and then disappears, leaving room for the day. A dawn cold creeps through the window, followed - in what seems to me a short distance – by the bursting light of a day at its peak.

Sounds from below wake me up from my slumber.

Mild whispers.

A shadow on the sides of my vision is spreading and invading the scene.

"Everybody knew." It begins to murmur "Everyone except me, isn't it true?" He asks.

John's voice is a light caress and I lift my head, as if re-emerging from a trance. Why are we still talking about this?

"That you played hide and seek during the past two years." He continues in front of my silence.

"I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry, sorry, sorry. " I hiss impatiently.

"You don't get it, do you?"

I'm annoyed. I usually understand everything, and quite easily, but his attitude now it's really incomprehensible, and this fills me with frustration. What does he want from me?

"It took me two years, Sherlock, _two years_ to forget I saw you dead on the sidewalk. _Two years_. "His voice is slightly cracked and I cannot keep my eyes from creeping into his ones staring down at me from above.

_Two years._

But I have not forgotten anything. I rather remembered, without being able to do without. Every detail, every touch, every look.

"I'm sorry." I repeat.

And this time I am sincere.

"What happened the other night, what ... what happened, it did not happen, am I clear?"

_Not really._

"But it happened, John, and as you know my memory is not weak."

I spit the words and I realize how my own voice sounded only when they are spoken. ... I seem hurt. What nonsense.

He turns to leave, but I hold his sleeve jacket between my fingers. Impress the pads too hard and I feel desperate doing so, but I stop him and that's enough. I cannot let him leave, go away. To Mary.

"Sherlock ..."

"John."

"Come on, let me go."

"No."

"Sherlock!"

"John."

I can go on for hours and he knows it. What will he do now? I often wonder this, he is the only one able to surprise me. I can think of at least seven different scenarios, but I can never fully understand his choices. Yet he is the person who would understand better. What a contradiction.

Like now.

When he bends over to me and hugs me. There is a slight smell of disinfectant where John was hurt, I feel the scent of his aftershave, the slight press of his hands on my back.

Increased pulse rate, of course.

Mine, this time.

"It took me two years to forget, Sherlock. What do you want now? "he whispers.

I investigate all the subtexts that this sentence can hide. Forget my death? Forget my presence? Forget me? Forget to have ... loved me?

Is that what he said the other night. That he had loved me. It didn't seem to mean brotherly love, family love because his voice was full of other meanings. So what he is saying now is that he has forgotten, that he has succeeded doing so, it took only two years to him, while I don't think I'll ever be able to, damn it.

"Remember."


	4. Prior experiences and plan elaboration

**This is a translation from Italian to English by alexisriversong**

**4. Prior experiences and plan elaboration**

"It's been hard." He keeps speaking .

He is been talking for exactly an hour and twenty minutes. And I'm listening carefully, catching all the information I can, like he was one of my clients. Without wanting it, between his words there are clues: pain, loneliness, confusion. All stupid emotions to my eyes, at least now that I am back. But for him are fundamental and I have to dissect them and comprehend the causes, catch all the probable and possible consequences.

John is laying on the sofa, a foot still laying on the floor like he is ready to run away. I'm leaning on him, holding his jumper between my fingers.

Seventy percent viscose and thirty percent wool.

Economic jumper.

Aftershave smell of course, but also something else.

What is it?

Claire de lune.

Mary's perfume.

"It was harder than coming back after the war, before meeting you. Do you want the thruth? I've hated you, even before knowing you were alive. I've hated you because you left me here, alone, with that phone call and… you have been an idiot. The more idiotic genius I've ever known"

I hold you tighter. With my hear pressed to your chest I listen your heartbeat accelerate. It's absurd how the accelerated pulsations of a heart speak more sincerely than what we are or aren't able to do with our voices.

I remember the phone call. It was difficult to make, but I knew I was doing the right thing. For him, for John, to save him. If I were able to say it, if I now was able to explain that I did it all for him, would he come back?

Would he stay for me? I can't deduce it and this irritates me terribly.

"Moriarty had to be stopped" It's all I say, with a veil of irritation in my voice.

"And you didn't care for everything else."

In his voice there is no anger anymore, there something else.

I have to understand, I have to deduce, I only have to be intuitive like always.

Delusion?

"You know me, John" I answer "There are cases and I solve them, that's all. Of course I do it in a very clever way…"

"I thought you were uninterested. To relationships, I mean." He interrupts me with a completely different line of thought, at least apparently.

"I am" I say with decision "to most of the relationships, at least"

His hands move and he holds me tight. I feel a frail hope and I convince myself that this is right, although the rightness of our relationship it's not relevant at the moment. Mary can't understand how deep our bond is. A lot of time, with my great displeasure, even I can't understand it. I'll say I'm sorry, John will do the same and everything will solve itself like it has to be. Some boring social convention and everything will be back to before.

Me and John.

The two of us against the world.

"It's like… like when…"

I get up to stare into his eyes with the shadow of a smile.

"Science of deduction John. It can be applied also to human responses, although the results, in this field, are less correct. Let's say a person lives a long time in contact with another person and that, after a series of events, he has to leave them. In this time a person can see the facts with an objectivity that they couldn't apply in the time they were close. Like every deduction the objectivity is the key. We can see that…"

I stay a second in silence, what is going to come out of my mouth it's too much, even to have John back. It's just too much. So I have to say something else, something similarly true, but infinitely less upsetting. It's sweet. It's ridiculous. It's illogical.

"I missed you"

John seems to release attention I didn't realize he had been accumulating.

"That's it?" he asks.

"What do you mean, that's it?!"

"I mean, you can miss friends, you would have missed even Lestrade."

"Definitely not. I am telling you."

My hand leaves his jumper and reaches for his face.

"John" I whisper.

I remember how shocking had been when I deduced my feelings for him. It hit me like the solution to a very difficult case and left me wondering for a long time. Full months trying to find prof of the opposite, building thesis weak as crystal just to see them crumble before the ineffable truth. It wasn't easy, not even for me that doesn't lose time with this kind of things and are really too good in everything else.

Again, John surprises me. He leans closer to me and kisses my lips slowly. It's a little kiss, that ends even before I can grab it and close it in my Mind Palace.

In the room of honor in his Mind Palace.

"Is this what you want, Sherlock?"

I don't want to talk anymore. I'm tired of being delicate, of waiting, of begging forgiveness. Everything is so boring and slow. Now I want to go at my pace, I want to take what is mine.

I take his lips, my hand grabs the back of his head. I pull him closer and this time I assure myself that he doesn't leave, grabbing the leg that reveals his fears. The one still on the floor, the one that looks like it wants to run away, the one that speaks of the part of him I want to destroy.

He groans in surprise but I don't let him think. I taste the skin of his neck and I taste a myriad of tastes explode on my tongue. I recognize them one by one, instinctively, storing them like precious information. Like last time my name slips from his lips. I still don't understand if he is begging or trying to stop me but I don't care. He can protest all he wants. He can hate me afterwards. But he has to let me take what I want.

I'm a drug addict and I'm completely addicted to him. John is my new drug and I have never been very good at stopping.

I go down, lifting his jumper and kissing the skin on his abdomen. Finally I get my hands under his belt, trying to open it. He puts a hand under my chin.

"Sherlock, no"

"Shut up, John"

A moment later I've got his trousers open.

"I have to inform you that I'm not really practiced in this activities" I whisper without waiting an answer.

I can feel your desire and I don't need to analyze this from a biological point of view because I can see it. The neuronal receptors of testosterone are producing a real fall of biochemical events on the nerves, blood vessels, muscles. The blood flows towards the constant pulse of your heart condensing the cavernous corps. I glance at his face but he covers his eyes with a hand and I am unable to see his expression.

I let my hand wander and then my mouth, in some sort of wild experiment of which I have no control. Every movement causes a reaction in John and I can understand what he likes, hat he likes less, what makes him go crazy. At the end he tangles his hand in my hair and pushes myself harder against himself. When I can lift my eyes I notice he still has the other hand covering his face.

I don't want him to be ashamed of this.

I separate from him just a second.

"John" I whisper to get his attention.

He finally looks up and I understand it's not shame what he feels.

What he feels is terror.

I ignore it, I have to. Because it's understandable that he fears the unknown. I don't, that's true, but I hardly count. The unknown has never stopped me, no, it's even the propulsion of every one of my actions. I have to know it, explore it, experiment with it.

I lower myself down again and again he tries to stop me, keep me away. It's a fight, a dance, an union. Until he reaches the pleasure he so fears of desiring. We keep still, frozen for some moments, accompanied only by his unsteady breath that tries to go back to normal.

I put my face on his chest again while I redress him with delicate gestures. He strokes my hair, like in a trance, beginning to whisper something that I don't immediately understand.

"It was…"

"Magnificent? Revelator? Wonderfully done?"

"Weird"

I let a disgruntled noise escape my lips and his hand leaves my hair. I feel like an idiot - like he so likes to call me – but I don't want him to stop.

Dopamine, no doubt. It's all it's fault and that of the addiction to everything that unleased it. All this physical contact, this distracted caresses, this kisses. Or maybe it could be the feniltalamine, her equally horrible companion.

"Not weird in a negative sense, Sherlock. Just weird."

"You are not really good with adjectives, are you?" I hiss feigning more anger than I really have.

"My experiences in this are zero, Sherlock, give me a minute."

"I've researched and I'm sure I have been good"

John laughs a bit, incrementing my irritation.

"What?!" I ask, moving away from him to look at his face.

"Nothing, nothing… You have researched, eh?

I put myself comfortable against him, again, while he keeps talking.

"I am even afraid of asking how. Don't tell me. I mean, how different could it be than between a man and a woman? No, obviously is different. God…"

We stay in silence because I haven't understood anything of his weird speech and I imagine that he is quiet because of the realization that slowly is leaning on him.

"Talk, John, and clear this time"

"I was wondering which experiences you have gathered in your past"

"I've never had any experience in any sexual field, John"

He pushes me away with force. Too much force. What did I say? What's wrong, damn it? Why is he looking at me in this way? What does it mean?

Think, Sherlock, think!

I let go a groan of rage and impotence.

"What?!"

"You… never…"

He gets up slowly, like this revelation has really shocked him.

"It's better if I leave, I have to think." He finishes without looking at me, walking directly towards the door.

"Where do you think you are going?" I ask following him until the end of the stairs.

"Home."

"To Mary, you mean."

"Yes, to Mary, I own her more than an explanation don't you think?"

I groan and he stops, turning immediately. On his face though, there is irritation. No, there is anger.

"Don't you dare, Sherlock, don't you dare"

I set my jaw and close my eyes a bit to lock his eyes with mine.

"Bo-ring" I hiss between my teeth before leaving him at the doorstep and get back to the flat.

I throw myself on the sofa with the loud sound of the door closing downstairs still ringing in my hears.

I only have to elaborate a plan. An easy plan, that takes count of all John's weak points.

War memories? No.

Empathy? No, no.

People he cares about? His sister? Mary? O god no!

Adrenaline addiction?

Oh, yes.

This could work.


	5. So close, so far away

**This is a translation from Italian to English by alexisriversong**

**5. So close, so far away**

Just a few well studied messages and here we are, walking in the Underground looking for the never built station, the place where the bomb Lord Moran placed during the election day for the antiterrorism law, could be.

With John's help I was able to… ok, he wasn't all that helpful, but his presence helps me think and thanks to this, I understood that the man at the station had not disappeared, it was the full carriage that did. A carriage that now is somewhere with a bomb on board. John is covering my back, continuing to ask me to call the police, thing I already did five minutes ago. I walk fast, letting the rush of adrenaline fill my body, the rush of the chase.

The chase with John.

It didn't took that much to convince him to follow me, although he looked intentioned not to answer my messages.

JOHN, WE HAVE A CASE - SH

MIGHT BE DANGEROUS - SH

I WON'T TALK ABOUT WHAT HAPPENED, NOW COME ON – SH

This last one must have convinced him because half an hour later he was at his door in 221B. That makes me really think he wants to delete everything that happened. Probably it's not even a difficult mission with his ordinary memory. But, I…

I open a closed door using a lever and I hide this thoughts from my mind, putting them back where they came.

No images of John's body.

No memories of what happened.

Of course…

I begin to walk on the rails looking in the darkness after reassuring John of the security of what we are doing.

And there it is.

The carriage.

I can't wait and I get inside, thinking I'll find explosives everywhere.

Instead, there is nothing. It's a normal Underground train carriage. John looks as surprised as me by this while we search everywhere. I don't like to be surprise and as I reflect on this detail a series of cables catch my attention.

"This is the bomb" I said.

"What?" asks John.

"It doesn't carries explosives, the whole compartment is the bomb." I explain.

"We need bomb disposal!"

"There may not be time for that." I answer.

"So what do we do?"

"I have no idea"

I've been scared, other times. It could be the human emotion I am more familiar with, thinking better about it. Now, though, observing John and trying to find a way out, I fear of losing him.

Of losing him for real.

Of leaving this world and having him left the living world with him.

He begins to feel stressed, he begins to say it's my fault for not being able to diffuse a bomb – why should I know how to do that?! – and shakes his finger towards me with voice broken from panic.

"You can't switch the bomb off! You can't switch the bomb off and you didn't call the police!" it's the last reproach I receive before I fall still.

It's John I am thinking about.

It's him that I have to save.

He has to live.

"Go John. Go now." I whisper pointing towards the exit.

He looks at me confused.

"There's no point now, is there, because there's not enough time to get away, and if we don't do this, other people will die."

Oh, what do I care about other people, damn it!

He stays a bit in silence before lightening up, like he had a brilliant idea.

"Mind Palace! Use your Mind Palace!"

"How would that help?" I ask irritated.

"You have salted away every fact under the sun!" answered John, saying as always the obvious.

"And you think I've just got 'how to defuse a bomb' tucked away somewhere in there?"

"Yes!"

For once he could be right and if to save him I have to admit it then I will.

"Maybe"

I hide in my Mind Palace with my fingers on my temples. John's voice inciting me from far away.

Think, think, think…

There must be something, a little detail. There, I'm almost there. Bombs. How to defuse a bomb.

Switch? Of course, switch! I know how to do and it's so easy.

Anyhow with this comprehension comes another idea. Because in front of the death the human being becomes incredibly sincere.

When I reopen my eyes I bore my eyes on John and he turns toward the rails. Then I get on my knees and begin to search the bomb trying to find the switch while John is still facing away. When I find it I decide to get on with my plan, put John in such a position he has to be honest with himself.

When he faces me back I have only one word for him.

"Sorry" I whisper.

He doesn't understand immediately so I continue.

"I can't… I can't do it, John. I don't know how. Forgive me."

"What?"

"Please John forgive me for all the hurt that I caused you." I finish.

His eyes widen when he doubts if I'm telling the thruth. Because from everything, his posture, his words, I can see he doesn't believe me completely. He accuses me of tricking him and I try to put a desolate expression on my face. Because I want him to be honest, I want him to talk to me, to say what I need to hear. I don't mind how many tricks I have to use.

John grabs a pole when I can convince him that we are finished, that we will die, that we will leave this world. I just stay close to the bomb, waiting.

At the end John talks, with pained voice. I deduce that it's terror dictate by the situation, but there is more. He is going to sai something really difficult to tell with words.

"Look… I find it difficult, this sort of stuff"

He sighs before looking at me.

"God, I'm not ready for all of this Sherlock. I wasn't ready. When we mwt you asked me what would have been my words before dying, remember?"

"I remember everything, John"

"My last words are… you are the best man I've ever known. What I wanted to say, what I'm trying to say is that… when you died I had so many things to say and now that you are back…"

"John there is no time." I stop him with cracked voice.

"I…"

In a second he gets close to me and hugs me so tight I can barely breath. When I do the air invades my nostrils and I can smell all his familiar scents. I grab his jacket between my fingers.

Only a thought invades my mind.

Say it, John, come on. Say it, say it, say it…

"Sherlock." His voice insinuates in my ear tickling me "if I have to die, if it's really how it's going to be, I'm happy you are here with me"

Say it, John, come on…

But John doesn't talk.

He separates a bit

He separates a bit from me and stares. It passes to many time and my mind empties at the depth of that gaze. His lips so close to me, slightly parted, look like an invite. They are an invite. And I accept.

We get in contact with each other and we are two universes so different but so attracted toward each other. It's just us.

Us against the world.

I find my way between his lips while the warmth of that touch pervades me. There is no rationality, no logic. I keep not understanding, but I keep searching all of this like air. I need it.

When he slowly separates from me in his eyes there is the shadow of sadness. A sentiment that's hurting him, I can feel it. Why isn't he talking to me? I don't understand this things and his mechanisms. I can't grab everything that human emotions ask, I'm not able to. I have John that does that for me.

So why it is so difficult, now, with me?

A voice in the distance wakes us up from the torpor and we look away from each other, our bodies disengage from their hug.

"What's happening?" asks John getting up.

"I imagine it's the police" I say imitating him.

"You called the police?" he asks glancing at the timer on the bomb. "And you have switched it off!"

I smile but he doesn't seem to find it funny like I do.

"Do you understand why I can't… do you understand that the problem is you?!" he shouts while the policeman get closer and closer.

I raise my hand to calm him down since his behavior is hysteric without a valid motive.

"No, Sherlock, no. What would happen if tomorrow you woke up and decided that you want to try and make this absurd thing work? You are a genius! So?"

"I can't know John, I'm not a seeker"

"You would change your mind, that's what would happen. You would change your mind, or would get bored, you would find some funnier experiment, more interesting, less boring! And what would be left for me, Sherlock?!"

"John, calm down"

"I'm calm" You answer with hate "I've already passed through this anyway"

"What would this mean?"

"You, great idiot, why do you think it was so difficult for me in this two years? What do you think I meant when I said I loved you, Sherlock? That I had had a certain curiosity on your behalf?! No, that is you! I… I…" his voice lowers and in his eyes I can see only sadness because I don't feel guilty.

The policemen enter the carriage, with their torches pointed towards us. They escort us outside, separating us, getting space between us.

"John" I call while they take me away from the bomb.

But he is not close enough to hear me.

We are just not close enough.


End file.
